The Man in the Twilight by Ridgwell Cullum

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The man laughed outright. The buoyancy of that moment was supreme. Bat
Harker was again in his mind. Bat, with all his quaint, crude
philosophy.

"Say, that beats everything," Bull cried. "My judgment of you. And all
this time I've been guessing--Oh, hell! Say, do you know, it gets me bad
when I think of you going back to Peterman and his crew? It sets me
well-nigh crazy. Oh, I know. I've no right. None at all. But it don't
make me feel any better. Here, I'll tell you about it. I'm not going to
take to myself virtues I don't possess, and have no right to anyway. I
wanted to win out in the fight against the Skandinavia because I'm a bit
of a fighting machine. I wanted to win out for the dollars I'm going to
help myself to. But I also wanted to win out because of the great big
purpose that lies behind these mills of Sachigo. I want you to get right
inside my mind on that thing so you'll know one of the reasons why I
hate that you're sending word to Peterman. You'll maybe understand then
the thing that made me fight you, a woman, as well as the others, and
treat you in a fashion that's made me hate myself ever since. I'm going
to say it as bluntly as I know how. It'll be like beating you, a
helpless victim, right over the head with a club. I've acted the brute
right along to you, an' I s'pose I best finish up that way. You were
doing your best to sell your birthright, my birthright, to the
foreigner. You were helping the alien, Peterman, and his gang, to snatch
the wealth of our forests. Why? You didn't think. You didn't know. There
was no one to tell you. You simply didn't know the thing you were doing.

"This man Peterman was good to you. He held out prospects that
glittered. It was good enough. And all the time he was looking to steal
your birthright. The birthright of every Canadian. That makes you feel
bad. Sure it does. I can see it. But I got to tell it that way,
because--Here, I'm on the other side. It was chance, not virtue set me
there. But once there the notion got me good. Sachigo was built to
defend the great Canadian forests against the foreigner. That slogan got
a grip on me. Yes, it got me good. I could scrap with every breath in my
body for that. Well, now we've got the Skandinavia beat, and in a year
or so they'll be on the scrap heap, ready to sell at scrap price. That's
so. I know. Sachigo will be the biggest thing of its kind in the world
next year, and there won't be any room for the Skandinavia. That's a
reason I hate for you to go back to Peterman--one reason."

"But I'm not going back," Nancy cried vehemently.

Bull stared wide-eyed.

"You're not going back?" he echoed stupidly. Then of a sudden he held
out his hand. "Say, pass that message right over. Why in--Guess I'm
crazy to read it--now."

Nancy held the paper out to him. There was something so amazingly
headlong in his manner. All the girl's apprehensions, all her
depression, were swept away, and a rising excitement replaced them. A
surge of thankfulness rose up in her. At least he would learn that she
had no intention of further treachery to the land of her birth.

"Accept my resignation forthwith."

Bull read the brief message aloud. It was addressed to Peterman, and it
was signed "Nancy McDonald." The force, the coldness of the words were
implacable. He revelled in the phrasing. He revelled in the thing they
conveyed. He looked up. The girl was smiling. She had forgotten
everything but the approval she saw shining in his eyes.

Suddenly he reached out and his great hands came gently down upon her
softly rounded shoulders. It was a wonderful caress. They held her
firmly while he gazed into her eyes.

"Say, Nancy," he cried, in a voice that was deep with emotion. "You mean
that? Those words? You've quit the Skandinavia? What--what are you going
to do?"

"I--I'm going to the forests with Father Adam. I'm going to help the
boys we've so often talked about. I'm--"

"Not on your life!"

The man's denial rang out with all the force of his virile nature.

"Say, listen right here. You've quit them. You've quit Peterman. And you
reckon from one fool play you're going right over to another. No, sir,
not on your life. It's my chance now, and by God I don't pass it. I'm
kind of a rough citizen and don't know the way a feller should say this
sort of stuff. But I'm crazy to marry you and have been that way ever
since you came along, and sat right in this office, and invited me to
take tea in the parlour of that darnation bug, Peterman. Do you know all
that means, Nancy? It means I'm just daft with love for you, and have
been ever since I set eyes on you, for all I had to treat you worse than
a 'hold-up.' Say, my dear, will you give me the chance to show you? Can
you forget it all? Can you? I'll raise every sort of hell to fix you
good and happy. And you and me, together, we'll just send this great
Sachigo of ours booming sky high, and in a year I promise to hand you
the wreckage that was once the Skandinavia. Marry me, dear, and I'll
show you the thing a man can be and do. And I'll make you forget the
ruffian I've had to act towards you. Will you let me help you to forget?
Will you--?"

Nancy's eyes were frankly raised to the passionate gaze which revealed
the depths of the man's great heart.

"I have," she said in a low voice. "I've forgotten everything
but--but--you."

She moved as she spoke. There was no hesitation. All her soul was
shining in her eyes, and she yielded to the impulse she was powerless to
deny. She came to him, releasing herself from the great hands that held
her shoulders. She reached up and placed her soft arms about the neck
that rose trunk-like above his shoulders. In a moment she was caught and
crushed in his arms.

"Why--that's just fine!"

The exclamation broke from the man out of sheer delight and happiness.
And the while he bent down and kissed the smiling upturned face, and
permitted one hand to wander caressingly over the girl's wealth of
beautiful hair.

CHAPTER XXVII

LOST IN THE TWILIGHT

A fierce wind swept down off the hills. So it had blown all night and
all the day before. The sky was overcast, and the thermometer had
dropped below zero. It was one of those brief "freeze-ups" such as
Father Adam had awaited, and it might last two or three days. Then would
come prompt reaction, and the rapidity of the thaw would be an
hundred-fold increased.

The sun was hidden, and the sky looked to be heavily burdened with snow.
The earth was frozen solid, and the wide flung forests were white with
the hoar frosts of Spring.

Father Adam was standing beside the crouching team of dogs. There were
five of them; great huskies, shaggy of coat and fiercely wolfish. They
were fat and soft from idleness. But they would serve, for the sled was
light, and a few days' run would swiftly harden them.

The outfit was waiting just beyond the kitchen door of the house on the
hill, and the view of the busy Cove below was completely shut out. The
position for the waiting sled had not been calculated by the man who
owned it, but by the shrewd, troubled mind of Bat Harker.

He was standing beside the tall figure of the missionary now, squat and
sturdy, looking on with half-angry, wholly anxious eyes. His expression
was characteristic of the man when he was disturbed. Father Adam's dark
eyes were surveying his outfit. There was no emotion in them. They were
calm, and simply searching, in the fashion of the practised trail man.

"Say, Les, this is just the craziest thing of all your crazy life," Bat
said at last, in a tone kept low for all the feeling that lay behind it.
"I tell you they're waiting on you. They've got you set. Just as sure as
God this'll be your last trip. It's kind of useless talkin' it again out
here, I know. We've talked an' talked it in that darn sick room of yours
till I'm sick to death trying to git sense into you. We know the game
from A to the hindmost letter of the darn alphabet. We haven't shouted
it, you an' me, because there wasn't need. But Idepski's been right here
since ever he got his nose on your trail. It was his gun that took you
weeks back, an' sent you sick. If I know a thing he meant just to wing
you, and leave you kind of helpless, so he could get hands on you when
he fancied. He wants you alive, and he's goin' to git you. Ther's word
got round you're pulling out. It's clear to me. A bunch of boys hit the
trail out of here three nights gone, and I've a notion Idepski went with
'em. Are they wise you're pulling out? Sure they are. Why, in God's
name, don't you quit it?"

The man whom the forest world knew as Father Adam, but whom Bat knew as
Leslie Standing, shrugged his shoulders.

"Why should I?" he said, his dark eyes mildly enquiring, "you can't
tell me a thing I don't know about Idepski. I knew it was he who dropped
me. I saw him that night down there and knew him right away. Maybe he
can fool you with his disguises. He can't fool me. I'd been watching him
days before that."

"Why didn't you show yourself? Why didn't you say?"

Bat spoke fiercely in his exasperation.

The missionary smiled.

"You'd have had him shot up," he said. "I know. No. If you'd known I was
around it would have queered the hand I was playing. Here, Bat, let's
get this thing right. You could shoot up a dozen Idepskis, and there'd
be others to replace 'em. Hellbeam's dogs'll never let up." He shook his
head. "It's a play that'll go on to the--end. I know that. I tell you
I've got past caring a curse about things. When the end comes, what does
it matter! Not a thing. It's useless talking, old friend," he said, as
Bat attempted to break in, "quite useless. But don't reckon I'm a
willing quitter. I'll play the game till it can't be played longer. And
when I've got to I'll throw my hands up. Not before. But Idepski can't
follow my trail."

"But he ken cut it," Bat cried, desperation finding expression in a
clenched, out-held fist.

"Can he?"

The missionary smiled confidently. And Bat suddenly flung out both
hands.

"Say, Les," he cried, "do you think I want to see my partner, and best
friend, hounded to a life of hell by that swine, Hellbeam? It breaks me
to death the thought of it. Man, man, it sets me nigh crazed thinking
that way. Don't I count with you? Don't the others you came along to
help count? That dandy gal I've heard you wish was your own daughter?
Don't she count? Say, we're all for you, Bull an' Nancy, an' me, just
the same as the rest of the folk of the forest. Stop right here, man.
Take your place again, an' we'll fight Hellbeam as we've fought his
Skandinavia. Say, we'll fight for you as we've never fought before.
We'll fight him, and beat him, and keep you safe from that hell he's got
waitin' for you. Just say the word, and stop right here. And I'll swear
before God--"

Leslie Standing raised a protesting hand. His eyes were unsmiling.

"It's useless, old friend," he said with irrevocable decision. "You
don't know the thing you're trying to pledge yourself to. You think me a
crazy man. You think I'm just asking for the trouble Hellbeam figures to
hand out to me. I'm not. I've got the full measure of the whole thing.
And I know the thing I'm doing doesn't matter. I'm not going to change
the plan of life I've laid down. I've learnt happiness in the forests.
The twilight of it all has been my salvation. Time was when I had other
desires, other delights. They've long since passed. Now there's only one
appeal to me in life. It's the boys, the scallawags, who haunt the
forest like I do. I love them. And my life's theirs as long as Hellbeam
leaves it to me. Get just that into your thick, old head, Bat, and for
our last five minutes together we can talk of things more pleasant than
Hellbeam."

The missionary smiled down into the strong face of his companion. And
the lumberman realised the uselessness of further protest. He yielded
grudgingly. He yielded because he knew and loved the man. By a great
effort he turned his mind from the dread haunting it.

"You've got me beat, Les," he growled. Then he spat in his disgust.

The missionary nodded, and, with a gesture of the hand, he indicated the
hidden mills below them.

"It's queer the way the whole thing's completed itself as I hoped and
dreamed so long ago," he said thoughtfully. "You know, Bat, that yellow
streak in me was a better thing than either of us knew. If I hadn't had
it I'd have stood my ground. I'd have fought to the end, and I'd have
been beaten, and Sachigo would have crashed. Do you see that? No. That's
because you look at things with the obstinate eyes of great courage.
While I, through fear, see things as they are. We won't debate it now.
The accomplished fact is the thing. You've set Sachigo on top. Sachigo
will rule the Canadian forest industry. The foreigner is on the scrap
heap. We've helped to build something for this great old Empire of ours,
and so our lives haven't been wholly wasted. It's good to feel that when
the time comes to pay our debts. That boy Sternford's a great feller.
I'm glad about him. Say, I felt I could cry last night when he and Nancy
came along like two school-kids to tell me of the thing they'd fixed. I
felt like handing them my story and claiming my place as Nancy's
stepfather. But I didn't. You see, she's glad about me as Father Adam, a
dopey missionary. But I can see her eyes blaze up red-hot with anger at
the man who took her mother from her, and denied her existence. No, it's
best that way. She's found the man I could have chosen for her, and I'm
glad. She's a great lass. She's all her mother--and more."

Bat inclined his stubborn head. He was still thinking of the dogs, and
the sled, and all they meant to him just now.

"Does she know about her share in the mills?" he asked brusquely.

The other shook his head.

"Not yet. But I've sent word to Charlie Nisson. He'll be along up on the
_Myra_. And when he comes she'll know." He laughed quietly. "Say, I'd be
glad to see them when they know about it--she and Bull. They're going to
be married right after Birchall's been along and finally fixed things.
It'll be a great day. I wonder. You know, Bat, I'd like to think
Nancy--my Nancy--knows all about this. I wonder if she does. Do you
think so?"

Bat turned away. His eyes were on the surrounding forest, and the white
gossamer of the hoar-frost clinging to the dark foliage. He dared not
trust himself to reply.

Again came the missionary's quiet laugh.

"I wonder," he said. Then, in a moment, a curious flicker marred the
calm of his eyes. "Bat, old friend," he went on, after a pause, "there's
just one thing I'm going to ask you before I pull out. It's a promise I
want. When the time comes for me to pay, will you tell her? Will you
tell them both? If I'm gone will you tell them the thing you know--all
of it? Don't make me out to be any old angel I guess you'd like to paint
me. Just hand 'em the story of the white-livered creature I am, without
the nerve of a jack-rabbit. Will you do that?"

He held out a hand from which he removed his fur mitt. Bat turned. He
saw the hand, and disregarded it in a surge of feeling.

"Tell 'em? Tell 'em?" he cried. "Say, Les, for God Almighty's sake don't
you pull out. You're my friend. You're the one feller in the world that
matters a curse to me. Quit boy. Stop right here, an'--"

"Will you tell 'em?"

The hand was thrust further towards the lumberman so that he could no
longer ignore it.

"Hell! Yes!" he cried, in fierce mental anguish. "I'll tell 'em--if I
have to." He seized the outstretched hand in both of his and gripped it
with crushing force. "You're goin'--now?"

"Sure."

Their hands fell apart. Bat's dropped to his side like leaden weights.
"So long," he said dully, as the other took his place in the sled. Then
he added, "So long, Les."

The sled needed breaking out, and the lumberman watched the operation of
it without a word. His emotions were too real, to deep for anything
more. He looked on while the first sharp order was flung at the dogs. He
watched them leap to their feet and stand ready, great, powerful,
untamed souls eager for their, task. Then the man in the sled looked
round as he strung out the long lash of his short-stocked whip.

"So long, Bat," he cried smilingly. And his farewell was instantly
followed by the sharp command to "mush."

* * * * *

Far out on the desolate highlands the dogs broke trail over a waste of
virgin snow. The cold had abated, and the flurry of snow that rose up
under their feet was wet and melting. The way lay through the maze of
woodland bluffs which lined the upper slopes of the course of the Beaver
River. Beyond them, northward, lay the windswept barrens of the
highlands.

Father Adam knew the trail by heart. The maze of bluffs through which he
was passing afforded him no difficulties or anxieties. He read them with
the certainty of wide and long experience. There was nothing new that
Labrador had to show him. He knew it all, and revelled in the wide
freedom its fierce territory afforded. The moods of the country
concerned him not at all. Furious or gentle, tearful or hard with the
bitterness of desperate winter, it was all one to him. He loved the
twilight of its mysterious, fickle heart. It was as much his home as any
place on earth.

The dogs swept on at a steady gait. The cruel whip played over furry
backs, a never-ceasing threat. And so the miles were hungrily devoured.
It was the first day of freedom for dogs and man alike, and each moment
of it yielded a sense of almost fierce joy.

The bluffs narrowed in, and the softer snow slowed the going. Instantly
a sharp command hurled the leading dog heading for the open where the
surface was hard and dry. The team swung away behind him and the sled
pursued. Then the silence broke.

A shot rang out. It came from the shelter of a bluff directly ahead. The
leading dog floundered. Then the brute fell with a fierce yelp, and
sprawled in the snow while the others swept over his inert body. The man
in the sled strove to brake the sled with the "gee-pole" which he
snatched to his aid. There was a moment of desperate struggle. Then the
sled flung tail up in the air and the man was hurled headlong amidst his
dogs.

* * * * *

Father Adam stood with mitted hands thrust up above his head. He was
gazing into the smiling eyes of a man no less dark than himself. There
were three others confronting him, and each was armed with a stubby,
automatic pistol which covered his body.

"Guess Hellbeam's waiting for you over the other side, Mr. Leslie
Martin, or Standing, or Father Adam, as you choose to call yourself.
He's waited a long time. But you ain't tired him out. Guess your game's
up."

"Oh, yes?"

The missionary smiled back into Idepski's derisive eyes.

"You can drop your hands," the agent went on. "We've got your gun. And I
guess you'll be kind of tired before we get you to the coast. You're
going to find things a heap tougher than No. 10 Camp--where you sent me.
You surely are."

"The coast?"

The missionary was startled.

"Yep. There's going to be no play game this time. Hellbeam's yacht's
waiting on you. You'll take the sea trip. It's safer that way."

"Yes."

The mitted hands had dropped to the missionary's sides. He moistened his
lips, which seemed to have become curiously dry. Once, and once only,
there was a flicker of the eyes as he looked into the face of his
captor. Otherwise he gave no sign. His time had come. He knew that. He
had always known it would come. There was neither heat nor resentment in
him against these men who had finally hunted him down.

"How do we travel?" he asked quietly. "You've shot up my leader."

The other nodded. He understood the tone of complaint and regret in
which the trail man spoke of his dog. He grinned maliciously.

"We'll shoot up the rest for you. They'd only feed the wolves if we left
'em. We've two dog trains with us. Don't let that worry. You best get
your kit loosed from your sled."

The prisoner turned to obey, but the agent changed his mind. He laughed.

"No. Guess the boys can fix that. It's safer that way. You move right on
into yonder bluff. And you best not try making any break. There ain't
only Hellbeam in this. I haven't forgotten--No. 10 Camp. Your game's
plumb up."

"Yes, plumb up."

Father Adam obeyed. He moved away, followed closely by the man who had
hunted him for so many years. There was no escape. He knew that. The
reckoning he had always foreseen had overtaken him. So, without a word
of protest, he passed for the last time into the twilight of the woods.

THE END

The Heart of Unaga

By

Ridgwell Cullum

Author of "The Way of the Strong," etc.

Many a stalwart deed has been done and many a brave tale told of the
forbidding but romantic North-land, but seldom has an author so combined
a tale of love, adventure, and strong swift action with mystery.

The terrible fires of Unaga crimsoning the white silent wastes are so
vividly portrayed, that the reader must feel authenticity. The strange
"sleeper" Indians are real Indians, the big-souled Northwest policeman
is not a superman, but a real human being, the girl is bonafide, the
villain is not fictional, but an actual personality, brave and base
alike--all the characters are living and breathing folk, that you feel
are there in far-off Unaga, and that you know you would find there, were
you hardy enough to visit that remorseless country.

G, P. Putnam's Sons

New York London

SNOWDRIFT

BY

JAMES B. HENDRYX

A Romance of the barrens--"straight north--between the Mackenzie and the
Bay," where Snowdrift, waif of the Arctic, Indian bred, bearing a false
but heavy burden of shame, and Carter Brent, Southerner, find their
great happiness among the icy wastes.

Swept to the Klondike by the first wave of the great gold rush, Brent
plunges, with the enthusiasm of youth, into the whirl of Dawson, the
city of men gone mad. How luck sat upon his shoulder, and how his
recklessness and daring won him the admiration of those wild times,
until the raw red liquor of Alaska downed him "for the count," is but
the beginning of the tale; for with him, we are carried into the
Northern night and fight the long fight back to manhood till purged by
the cleansing cruelty of the Arctic.

G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS

NEW YORK LONDON

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